


The Rise of Tyria's Finest Fools

by klismaphilia (orphan_account)



Category: Guild Wars
Genre: Bitterness, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Order of Whispers, Past Character Death, Pick-Up Lines, Rivalry, Savant - Freeform, Self-Loathing, asura arrogance, commander of the pact, durmand priory, hero of shaemoor, mesmerizing mesmers, sexy weapons, slayer of issormir, vigil - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/klismaphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past few months have taken a toll on Tyria- and when the request for a guild comprised of the races' major figures is called to arms, there's only one expected outcome- death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rise of Tyria's Finest Fools

**Author's Note:**

> well... this was basically a roleplay between me and darling Mental, and we're not really sure where it's going yet, but... we'll see! thought we'd share anyway.  
> guild wars is so addictive. ;-;

_Thallis Everett, Mesmer_

_Lion’s Arch, Kryta_

_Sometime between evening and midnight_

Thallis Everett was intrigued by many things- life outside of Divinity’s Reach, the strength of his own being, the Ascalonian myths and, most of all, one Blyke Argentum.

He wasn’t accustomed to caring for people aside from his own family- he and Faren had always been quite close, but that was a different matter. Faren was nobility, like himself, and his parents had always been so close with Thallis’ own- it wasn’t a surprise when they’d arranged for a marriage between Faren and Camille. His sister had been terribly enraged by the whole incident, spent days spouting off vulgarities at having to marry the oaf that was her brother’s best friend.

In a sense, Faren was his only friend. Despite his closeness with Logan Thackaray, or his sudden fascination with Blyke Argentum, he’d never once been able to fit into that tightly knit circle they’d formed. It was… unnerving, to someone like him, accustomed with finery for most of his life and yet never exactly the most social being. Camille didn’t understand; she’d laugh, and prattle on about his unblemished dark skin and stunning, fox-like eyes and ask him why he hadn’t gotten married yet.

Thallis didn’t know. It wasn’t something he fancied, the thought of being tied down, married off to the Gods know who, but… sometimes he wondered. He figured it would have made the passing of his father much easier, if he’d had someone to accompany him.

And to think that all he was doing at this point was sitting at a pub in Lion’s Arch, pondering the meaning of his own life and why exactly he was so fascinated with the Hero of Shaemoor- sure, they’d fought together for a time, but the man was a commoner, and not exactly your typical hero either. Perhaps it was still this desire for friendship, but Blyke had shut himself off with a wall of mystere, and for a Mesmer, mystery was something he couldn’t even stand.

It was times like these that he missed Hidere. And it was times like these that angered him because fuck’s sake, Blyke was leaving as well. There would be no more talks in the countryside, no more raiding bandit camps together, no more reading Ascalonian myths to him or helping him practice his cursive and calligraphy. There would be no more acquaintanceship for them, and nothing was going to hold off the inevitable.

He’d contemplated joining his own Order, one day- but he didn’t want to do it alone, because loneliness was so cold it made his head hurt and he just wanted to scream. Thus, he was drowning his sorrows in wine in Tyria’s major city, waiting for someone to just walk through the door and whisk him away from his own miserable company for… for nothing. Queen’s sake, there was absolutely nothing that could carry him at this point, nothing that could break him out of this stupor or give him the camaraderie he so desperately craved.

He missed Camille. The day she’d left hadn’t been long ago- five months, perhaps- and already it was leaving him with a dreadful ache in his chest. he supposed it was normal- she was his little sister, and all he really had for support. Their mother’s pressuring had simply been too much.

One day, he’d return to Divinity’s Reach, make right of the wrongs he’d passed, sort out the corruption within the governments of all the major races- it was what he was best at, after all, a keen eye for politics. Even Logan knew that much- nobody was foolish enough to believe he’d go any other direction.

But a part of him wanted to fight- it didn’t want to stay hiding in the city behind figures of authority and heroes who only ever left… it wanted him to live.

“To life,” he toasts, sarcastically, holding up his glass of wine with an eye to the bartender- a Norn, of no surprise to anyone, he’d assume, who just shakes her head and responds, quickly.

“Amen to that.”

* * *

_Blyke Argentum, Elementalist_   
_Lake Delavan, Kryta_

_8:44am_

The door behind Blyke Argentum snapped shut.

His head was still pounding, accompanied with an ache in his feet and a pain in his back. His nap had not eased up any of his pains, although that came as no surprise. He’d only slept for a few hours. He’d asked a kind woman if he could borrow a bed to sleep in, yet as soon as he’d laid down, he found that he couldn’t drop off. Blyke had blamed it on the events of the past week. His night had been plagued by the same flashback he’d suffered for the past couple of days.

A creature made from the earth itself.

And he had slain it.

All of this madness had happened, and Blyke had been out cold for a short while. As soon as he recovered, Blyke remembered being swamped with grateful villagers and fellow soldiers alike, some of them in training, and others, higher up in the ranks. He had been branded as the “Hero of Shaemoor!”, but Blyke secretly hated the title they’d given him. Blyke would have gladly given the credit for this small act to his other aides. After all, Logan had even advised him to help the villagers of Shaemoor, for the Seraph were short on reinforcements to push back the centaurs assault. He wouldn’t have been here if it wasn’t for his friend.

Blyke’s thoughts turned to a new and recent acquaintance, a mesmer by the name of Thallis Everatt. Surely the man deserve more recognition than he? He was sure that the mesmer has scored several devastating hits to the earthen creature before he blasted it with a dozen fireballs.

He wasn’t looking for praise. He wasn’t looking for recognition. He was following his moral compass. People needed to be helped, and so, he had helped them. And that’s not even who Blyke was. People saw him as a just man, the people’s rock, and a hero to rely on. But Blyke hated that too. He wasn’t a hero. He was just trying to find his place in the world.

Blyke himself was a two edged sword, his mask emitting an aura of justice and strength, while underneath that thin veil was a man distraught with emotion and angst. Sure, Blyke’s moral were strong. He was driven by dignity and duty. He had to help people; he couldn’t just stand by and watch them struggle in this harsh world. He cared a lot for people, and he’d help them all he could. But there was always a fine line with Blyke. Just because he cared, that never meant he trusted anyone. Just because he was just, it didn’t mean that he was immoral at times. Hell, Blyke knew that his sister, Rya would have known that his hot temper and his lack of confidence was a flaw that was easily exploited. If it was anyone who knew him, it had been Rya. She knew that he hid his wild menagerie of emotions behind his carefully controlled mask. She had been the one to break his boundaries, to bring out the best in him.

Blyke winced. Rya was a year younger than him. She’d always fought for her Queen, while Blyke had stayed at home. At first, magic was a hobby. Blyke had never thought of becoming a fully fledged elementalist.

Not until Rya died.

Well, technically, she’d gone missing, along with the rest of her legion. The Seraph had combed Godslost, Salma, Orlaf, and even Beetletun, but there had been no clues as to their whereabouts. Rya was presumed dead. Blyke didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

But he had to.

Blyke knew that now, there was only one thing he could do. He had to respect his sister’s wishes until the day she died. Blyke had never been out of Divinity’s Reach before, but her will urged him to use his talents in the field. Blyke had always helped people within the city walls, but Rya believed that he had potential to help people outside of those walls as well. Bounded by his sisters will, he contacted Logan, went through basic training, and ended up here.  

“Are you alright, dear?”

A soft voice was all Blyke needed to return to the present. An elderly woman stood next to him, skin pale, and hair whiter than snow. She was struggling with some metal parts, obviously having the intent of moving them to a safer place. Blyke glanced around, searching for any Skritt, but the small creatures were too busy battling other travellers that had come through Queen’s Forest and Shaemoor.

Blyke smiled down at the woman, his blue eyes filled with warmth and reassurance. He was happy that so many people were fighting to protect Kryta. It was no longer the peaceful place it used to be, and yet people still fought for that long lost dream. He would fight with them, for he knew that peace would once return to his homeland. Running a hand through his messy brown hair, he returned his attention to the old woman beside him.

“I’m fine, Miss,” he reassured her. “Do you need help with that?”

He gestured gently to the metal cog in the woman’s hands.

“Thank you, young man.” the woman told him gratefully, handing Blyke the metal cog with difficulty. Clicking his neck and sighing a little, Blyke followed the woman, hefting the metal in his arms.

There only more days like this to come.  

* * *

_Anaya Leopardfur (Greyclaw), Thief_

_Remanda Saltmarsh, Bloodtide Coast_

_9:37 am_

Her daggers were broken. That’s the only thought she allows herself to have, and it keeps replaying in her mind like a broken record, something so terribly frustrating and endless that she can’t prevent the growl that escapes her lips at the thought. It hadn’t been long since she’d taken up her post; the camp was already thick with heat, the tent filled with the smell of sweat and the Asuran researchers milling about as they searched for whatever they’d been summoned to find… they wouldn’t brief her, of course, she wasn’t a Priory member.

No, she was a Lightbringer. A member of the Order of Whispers, sneaking intelligence about and performing reconnaissance tasks in most of her free time, a mundane task that kept her mind busy and her wits about her.

She hadn’t been right in the head, not for awhile. She kept hearing the whispers, the comments that made her suck in her breath, the condolences of those in Lion’s Arch because he died a hero, Anaya, you have to remember that. But it wasn’t an easy task- she couldn’t keep herself from remembering the good moments, apple cider in Lion’s Arch, scouting out pirate camps on Lake Gendar, running amok with the Skritt in the caves of Brisban Wildlands. It was familiar, it was something so damn nostalgic it made her heart ache.

“Tybalt…” she whispers, more just to go over the name in her own head, to let it pass through her ears and block her senses so she can’t see his corpse, rotting in front of her, bloody and covered in pus and venom from the seeping gashes along his muzzle, the fur torn from his back, claws broken… because it was her fault.

She’d left her best friend to die.

It was something that frightened her, a thought that never left, because Anaya Greyclaw was a goddamned murderer, and she hadn’t brought herself to stay behind, hadn’t allowed herself to help when there was a chance he could’ve been saved, could’ve… lived. And as much as it hurts, there were parts of it still that made her heart leap. Because he’d saved her, he’d given her the chance to live…

But the cost hadn’t been worth it.

And so as she stands, milling about in the tent, fretting over those broken daggers, split fragments of metal and a busted hilt, she thinks of him. She thinks of the Risen, swarming the fort, of the way they clawed and bit at her and ripped her armor to shreds, of how the dragon had flown overhead sending those wailing yowls that made her entire body shiver. She didn’t know what it was, couldn’t understand how to cope, and the pain that takes her so chillingly is pathetic.

Because above all else, she’s still a soldier. And above all else, she’s a member of the Ash Legion, a Lightbringer of the Order of Whispers, and she doesn’t have time to wallow in self pity. There are people out there, people who are depending on her and everything she stands for… and she can’t let them down.

So briefly, she looks up at the voice of the Norn woman she’d come to call an acquaintance, standing in the entryway of the tent, looking at Anaya as she stares down at the dull and dismantled daggers, the poison they’re coated with, the venom she wants to use to scorch her own veins so maybe she can just see Tybalt again… and she gives a sad smile.

“I’ll be right there.”

* * *

_Raven Greye, Warrior_   
_Remanda Saltmarsh, Bloodtide Coast_

_9:40am_

It was weird being here.

Ever since she’d proven her worth back in Shiverpeak mountains, Raven had strived to work her hardest to impress the tribe. That was her destiny. She would be the next hero, the next Nord to find herself painted on the walls of the ancient caves, forever celebrated by her people for her heroic deeds. Raven’s performance had left her with a small journey to Remanda Saltmarsh. Raven first assignment had paid off, but of course, the tribe expected more of her.

And thus, they’d sent her to this place.

As much as Raven was confident, she knew she was fucked. She was only a young wolf amongst the tribe, and she was not well acquainted with her sword as of yet. And still, they sent her out here. Nothing like leaving her here by lowkey shitting on her. Raven had made a wise choice to stay with the supplies, instead, helping where she could. She was no soldier yet, and as much as she hated it, there was no denying her lack of strength currently.

She knew her father would be teaching her an important lesson by doing this to her, but it didn’t stop her from wanting to give him a sharp slap across the face. She wouldn’t even be allowed to do that. Disrespect to parents was a taboo, and Raven considered herself rebellious even thinking about doing something like that.

Looking over the supplies, she realised she needed a bit of help.

Again.

Spotting a nearby charr, she called her over.

“Hey, you,” she barked bluntly. “Over here!”

“I’ll be right there.” the stranger replied with a saddened smile.

With a jolt, Raven realised that she’d met this charr once or twice before. Anaya Leopardfur had often travelled to Shiverpeak Mountains on some business about something or whatever. It was nothing that Raven paid much attention to. Nonetheless, Raven had bumped into the charr several times during her limited tour of Shiverpeak Mountains, and the two had often struck up a short and clipped conversation.

With a grey gaze colder than steel, Raven waited patiently for Anaya to come and help her. Patience was something that she had been taught, but it was also something that she had never mastered. Being the daughter of a blacksmith should have taught her more about patience and respect instead of clinical politeness and a loud voice for barking out orders.

Raven, by definition, was a fighter. Her parents were always the quiet couple who worked on elite weapons for the Nord, but their daughter was anything but. She was confident, she was blunt, and she was frostier than the coldest winter. Her younger brother Jet was more of an optimistic and enthusiastic nuisance, but Raven loved him nonetheless. Who couldn’t fall in love with a cheeky little smile like his?

Anaya simply sent a glance to Raven as she slipped through through the flap of the tent and past an Asura who seemed to be desperately attempting to balance a stack of golemancing plans on his shoulders. “My assistance is needed, stranger?” She asks, simply, without much more than a glance to the other’s face. “Nice glare,” she adds bluntly. “Must work wonders in getting people to do their job around here.”

“Indeed it does,” Raven replied, her lip curling slightly. “Thanks for your help. Maybe next time I won’t get the urge to surgically remove your tongue with my blade.”

Raven had a mild dislike for Anaya. She was, to put it simply, annoying. Raven couldn’t help being an icy bitch, but Anaya didn’t have to point it out. Raven rolled her eyes at the creature. She wasn’t worth her time.

The Charr, on the other hand, held a decent amount of respect for the Norn; although a bit too… uptight, she supposed, was a decent word, for her liking, Raven held qualities that would certainly go on to prove their value in fighting. “Didn’t mean to offend,” she comments casually, her broken daggers slung in their holsters on either side of her waist. “What seems to be the problem?”

Raven pursed her lips slightly.

“A Greye is never offended,” she recited. “But instead our interest is piqued.”

Personally, Raven never understood her family’s saying, and it was a pretty shit one at that. Yet still, the Nord had little to say. An offense against a person was an invitation for a fight. Perhaps the meaning of the Greye saying was that they’d never back down? Or that they were impressed that someone would even dare to face them in combat? Raven clenched her jaw. It made her sick to the stomach that their saying could be so arrogant. Nobody is invincible after all.

“We’re thin on helpers,” Raven continued. “If you have the time to spare, you could aid me and and Gloxen here with the supplies.”

As if to emphasise her point, the poor Asura dropped the boxes that he was trying to lift onto his thin shoulders. He glanced at Raven and Anaya sheepishly, before attempting to gather up the boxes again.

“No problem,” Anaya replied quickly, jolted back to the present- it’s a welcome relief, in a sense. The task might help keep her out of her own head. She quickly lifted a box into her arms, almost baring her fangs at the smell. It wasn’t a surprise, of course- marshes never exactly were the best place for research.

“So, what brings you to the coast?” She asked finally, still a little surprised to see Raven in this area- she’d run into the Norn a couple times prior, back in the Shiverpeaks. The other was still rather young in comparison to most of her brethren, and it wasn’t every day that you saw a mountain dweller in the tropics.

“The spirit of the snow leopard brought me here,” Raven replied mysteriously. “This is my destiny. I must have knowledge of the outside world for me to understand her greatest teachings.”

Raven had been sent her by her family, but their ‘excuse’ for shunting her over here was to honour her spirit animal, the snow leopard. Raven knew that as much as she disliked this mission, there was no disrespecting the animal she worshipped. The snow leopard had taught her many things, and it seemed like there was even more to learn.

Raven had to admit the tropics were a little too warm for her liking. Personally, she preferred the cool touch of snowflakes on her bare arms. She knew for a fact that she’d probably prefer the mild climate in other territories, but Raven was unsure as if she’d ever learn something like that any time soon. She was a woman now, eighteen years old and as fresh as a daisy in this world. Yet, her cool touch and blunt approach was bound to allow her to make her own icy mark on this world, no matter how hot and uncomfortable it was.

Bringing her conversation with Anaya to a close, she reached down and lifted the heavy box of research materials.

The snow leopard was her guide. Under her spirit animal, Raven knew that she would never stray from the path she was destined for. Nothing would stand in her way.

* * *

_Sylvain Tiennan, Engineer_

_Prospect Valley, Dry Top, Maguuma Wastes_

_11:33 pm_

It was almost infuriating- the dry winds and sand flying into his eyes, rocks tumbling down cliffs and knocking him in the face. The dust mites were the worst- pesky things that liked to pounce on those who dared to wander about in the frenzied winds. To be fair, it wasn't even the sandstorms or the heat that was getting to him- it was the smell.

It was a sickly odor that clung to his armor and seeped from his skin during the hot flashes and heat strokes. Sylvain wasn't entirely a fool- he knew just how weak his body was in comparison to most of those dwelling in the valley. Small and wiry, even for a sylvari, his vertebrae protruding from his thin green-blue skin, the occasional irritation of his skin peeling back. Sometimes the dead skin and the fact he smelled like a goddamned rotmouth was overwhelming- there was white inside his eyelids, the flashing of scorched landscapes and hands reaching out from the ground and Zhaitan's fucking shadow just breathing on him and chilling him to the core...

He didn't need this. Didn't deserve these flashbacks. But he was the Commander of the Pact alliance and he was stronger than this. He had a fucking title to uphold. And hell if he wasn't going to do that- he wasn't some brittle thing that would break under the strain of death and sickness and that fucking smell-! And maybe it was just a bit too much right now. He felt like a fool because he needed someone, needed a friend at the very least...

He supposed he deserved this- for the number of times he'd pestered people, gotten too drunk for his own good and ended up hitting on some Norn woman when he was on business in the Shiverpeaks. And there were those times when he'd swam underwater in Southsun Cove just to check out others' "equipment." He was a horrible influence to himself, he thought. Absolutely dreadful.

Which is why he was here now, under a table tinkering with his fucking toolbelt for the dozenth time, on the verge of shouting when his pliers slipped out from his sweaty fingers and clattered to the splintered wooden floor. He had to wonder, as he often found himself doing these days, exactly why he’d come to the Maguuma Wastes. After Zhaitan, after… after Orr, he didn’t think there was anything left. Not for him, not for his skills, not for his age or his lifetime-

He was wasting it. Wasting whatever precious time he had left. He’d been boarded up here with an aggressive Charr for a roommate, casually throwing out lines such as, “If I were a skritt, you’d be my shiny,” attempting to reinvigorate himself. He’d messed with the magnetic polarization of his toolbelts, worked on building designs for an improved version of his rocket turret that had been busted some point during the attack on Fort Trinity, keeping entirely to himself with the silence, and the tools and the horrendous smell that lingered eternally. It never left him alone- it was gore and death and trauma and Orr all rolled together.

He coughed, suddenly, struggling for breath as yet another wave of feverishness hit him, almost causing him to double over where he was situated on the floor, his head aching something horrible… There was a sense of unfamiliarity that he couldn’t fathom, a sense of desperation and if he couldn’t fix that turret by tomorrow, he swears on the life of fucking Trahearne-

No, he thinks, finally, allowing himself to lie back, slump over on the floor without much care or regard to anything remaining. No, there wasn’t anyway to get past this. He’d thought running would help, thought that traveling, leaving Orr…

Maybe he was never supposed to leave. Maybe Orr was the only place he belonged.

* * *

_Lucy Silicon, Ranger_

_The Grove, Caledon Forest_

_8:56pm_

She had awoken.

The Dream felt a lot like a distant memory. It was shrouded in mist and long forgotten, drifting far into the recesses of her mind. Many forgot what the dream even held for them, and they served the Pale Tree (or of course, the Nightmare) for the rest of their lives. Business around here was quite simple really, and the hustle and bustle of the Grove often made Lucy feel right at home.

Fortunately for Lucy, she could fit in just about anywhere. With an attitude brighter than the sun, and a knack for understanding the hardships in life, Lucy was a good friend and a loyal companion. Perhaps her genuine kindness was amplified by the comforting presence of her own pet; a leopard by the name of Linus.

They had found each other in the Dream, and Linus had needed a companion. Lucy was only willing to provide her harmonious company and the duo hit off immediately. Like Lucy, Linus had seen the strange happenings in Lucy’s dream. She had to admit that she was still slightly shaken by the images stored in her memory. They were like paintings on a wall; something that she found herself seeing again and again and again.

A dragon, and a white stag.

What could it have meant? The Dream had to have led her to this vision for a reason, but it was a reason that she was unsure of at the moment. She’d spoken briefly with Caithe about it, but even the wise leader of the sylvari could not answer her questions. Perhaps it was not that Caithe didn’t know the answer which bothered Lucy, but it was more the idea that Caithe seemed to be hiding something from her. It was as if she knew full well about Lucy’s visions, but she’d purposefully decided not to expand on them for the time being.

Linus growled from her heels. The duo currently stood in the middle of the Grove, simply admiring the beauty of the complex. Dandelion seeds flew upwards and downwards, dropping off various sylvari on their daily quests. Vines dangled from the upper ceiling, and sweet smelling flowers spiralled up into the sky. It was peaceful, albeit the noise of other sylvari getting on with their daily lives.

Lucy sighed, and checked her quiver. She still had a few arrows left, but she’d come here to restock. Several of her most recent arrows had snapped, and thus, she’d had no choice but to get some more.

Whistling to Linus, Lucy set off in search of arrows. She brought another fifty, which was pricey enough, and slid them into her quiver. It looked like she was all set to slay some more forest spiders and eagle raptors. They were annoying enough to deal with, not to mentioned, they’d broken a few of her most prized projectiles; perfect arrows that she’d managed to make herself while she was far away from civilisation. But that was not what bothered her. She knew that she could find and kill a forest spider easily. They were in abundance around here.

She would go hunting for the mysterious white stag. It had to be around here somewhere. Even if nobody else was going to help her find it, she might as well scour the land for it while helping the local people. Lucy knew that finding this stag might be imperative to answering a few of the things in her dream.

With a nudge from Linus, the young sylvari ran off in search of her invisible trophy.

Who knew if she’d ever find it?

* * *

_Cassian Dahlia, Elementalist_

_Durmand Priory, Lornar’s Pass, Shiverpeaks_

_11:17 am_

Her work was almost getting sloppy, she thought with an intense frown plastered across her features. Already, she was unable to fix the 7-series attacking golem that she’d built to help out the Durmand Priory on their last excavation with the Dredge. She couldn’t figure out what was wrong- had she reconnected the transpacial interlocator the wrong way? Or perhaps it was more simple- perhaps the golem wasn’t even plugged in.

It was endlessly irritating to her- she hadn’t been able to focus on her own tasks lately, much less on those that the Priory had given her. Ever since Lion’s Arch, since Claw Island… well, the loss was hitting her rather deeply. If she wasn’t an Asura, she might label it as one of the stages of grief, might label it as a pang of guilt that caused her heart to shatter. But she knew that her heart wasn’t glass, and even if it began having palpitations, she wouldn’t rupture. It would be fine, regardless- everyone had lost someone in that battle.

And to be fair, Sieran had trained her- it was the least she could do to keep a solid memory of that.

Briefly she’d allowed herself to scout in Orr, work alongside the pact for what it was worth- Trahearne was a solid leader and an adequate listener, so her work wasn’t under appreciated, especially not during the attacks on Fort Trinity. Her skills as an elementalist greatly surpassed most of the others fighting alongside the Pact leader, including those of his commander.

She’d only met the man once, but even she could tell he had no sense of stability- weak, lacking, unable to be of much use when his inventions were easily destroyed in a matter of minutes. His gun had been rather impressive, although Cassian never liked guns- she supposed it was the reason she never became an engineer. As an Asura, tinkering was something embedded in her brain from birth. As a progeny, she’d never gotten a break- it was order after order, repair after repair…

Not much had changed, for what it was worth. She was still the most valuable asset to her community,  and especially in the Priory. At least here they could see her true worth, appreciate her extensive, meticulous handiwork without hurling insults at her. Not that she was content here- no, Cassian Dahlia was aiming for greater feats. She wanted to explore Tyria, to be revered for her feats, not criticized for her every mistake.

There was a chance- she hadn't outlived much, aside from the egocentrism and skritthheadedness of her counselors back in Rata Sum. The council was nothing if not corrupt, filled by ignorance that was polluting the minds of young progenies. In fact, she had some intuitive inkling that that chance was going to arise very soon.

She just had to take hold of it.

* * *

_Gloxen Ichor, Necromancer_

_Synergetics Lab, Metrica Province_

_11:49am_

It seemed that dead men did tell tales after all.

Gloxen’s very own invention for the Snaff prize was bound to blow several minds, this forthcoming weekend, but the young asura was content with being quiet about it. After all, that’s who he was. Quiet, skittish, yet also contemplative and cunning. In his head, he was confident, but in the world, he was dwarfed by his own expectations, worries, and fears. But of course, Gloxen had to keep a cool head. There was nothing else he could do. He had to be like everyone else. He had to try and be the smartest bitch out there.

Sure, he was smart - um newflash, all asura are smart, duh! - but that didn’t mean he actually cared about being better than everyone else. He just cared about working hard enough to please his friends.The college of Synergetics has wanted to win the Snaff prize for ages, and this was their chance.

But at this time, Gloxen was more invested in tinkering with his current project.

He was trying to communicate with the dead.

As a necromancer, he was always the one who messed around with life and death, and everything in between. His main purpose for becoming a necromancer was simply to continue the search for his Mother. She’d been everything to him, but he doesn’t have an inkling where she’s gone. He even asked his blood fiends to try and locate her on several occasions, but of course, he was unsuccessful.

And it what left him with this device. He was sure that if he connected the nucleus to the dimensional intermission switch, then he would successfully bring back the dead. On the other hand, his invention could fail. Of course, his chances of success was 99 to 1, but he was aware that anomalous results and random errors could easily skew the results of his research and his thesis on the connection between the land of the living and the dead. As much as some asura claimed to be perfect and devoid of any asuran error whatsoever, Gloxen thought differently. Nobody was perfect, and his simple knowledge of this is what made him smarter.  

Either way, Gloxen was confident that the Snaff prize could be won this year, and it would be his invention that would win it. The “Teleporting Relocator” was thought to literally teleport someone to another location. Ingenious, right? His teacher, Vaark, had suggested the idea to him, and he had accepted.

The project had been slowed by Gloxen’s absence - a short trip to recover lost blueprints along Bloodtide Coast - but he was back and ready to work towards a possible victory for the College of Synergetics.

Tinkering with his tools, the young asura felt very content with life in Metrica.

If only he knew what was to come…

 

**Author's Note:**

> Blyke and Thallis: They met when they fought together in the battle of Shaemoor and became acquaintances.  
> Lucy and Sylvain: The met in the dream and in the Grove, but again, they’re mere acquaintances.  
> Raven and Anaya: Raven and Anaya have bumped into each other several times while Anaya was on business and Raven was in training. They’ve shared a few blunt and short conversations.   
> Gloxen and Cassian: Both of these asura attended the college of synergetics, and they have met each other several times while in the quest for their various projects. 
> 
> Thallis, Sylvain, Anaya and Cassian belong to mooncake :3  
> Blyke, Lucy, Raven and Gloxen belong to mental :)
> 
> if you're looking to play with us, my user is TiennanAmauri.4793


End file.
